


Five Times Crowley Wanted To Kiss Aziraphale (And One Aziraphale Asked Him To)

by williamastankova



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 5 Times, 5+1 Things, 6000 Years of Pining, 6000 Years of Slow Burn, Arguing, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale's Bookshop, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley knows the gavotte, Crowley's Bentley (Good Omens), Crowley's Flat, Crowley's Plants (Good Omens), Dancing, Drinking, First Kiss, First Meetings, Gan Eden | Garden of Eden | Jannah, Gardens & Gardening, Gay Crowley (Supernatural), Hurt Crowley, Kissing, M/M, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sad with a Happy Ending, Slow Build, Slow Burn, its a long one, sorry about all the tags lmao
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-02
Updated: 2019-07-02
Packaged: 2020-06-02 11:56:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19440982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/williamastankova/pseuds/williamastankova
Summary: Crowley's spent six thousand years for Aziraphale to catch up to him, and yet he doesn't know if the angel ever will.(from Aziraphale's POV)





	Five Times Crowley Wanted To Kiss Aziraphale (And One Aziraphale Asked Him To)

It's rather mundane here. Well, not to be misconstrued at all, Aziraphale does love the garden. He's ever-so-pleased that he was the one given the enormous task of taking care of the plants, animals, and - most importantly - the first humans in existence, but sometimes he can't help but feel a little... underappreciated.

God is busy. He knows this, because almost every time he calls to Her or tries to contact Her, there's no response. He's sure She has some divine work to be getting on with, probably designing new creatures or battling eternal evil and darkness - nothing worth interrupting for a little chat with him, but still he does often feel lonely. Not that he thinks he and the creator of all things are exactly buddies, but he'd hoped they could communicate more at least in some sense now that they were working in closer quarters. This, apparently, was an idiotic notion.

Every time his mind reminded him of this melancholy fact, he'd sigh and consider it, eventually settling that there was nothing to be done, and the purpose of an angel was not to gossip like some busybody human, but rather to live an isolated life doing the Lord's work. That is until one day, when he's approached by a snake. A _serpent_ , he believes it's called, a coal coloured one that's unlike any animal he's seen in the garden yet.

Its scales are glistening. He'd always believed snakes were designed to have matte bodies, to blend in with their surroundings, but apparently this creature was different. The eyes, too... despite their cat-like slits, cutting the piercing iris in half, there's something odd about them. The way they remain trained on him for so long, as though watching him intently as he gently planted something or other in the ground seemed so human. He thought he could see further into the eyes, deeper, closer to the soul of the snake, and perhaps this is what makes him move to kneel beside it.

"Well, hello," his voice is chipper, though he feels a little timid having never seen this animal in all of his time in Eden, "Aren't you a pretty little thing?"

He stretches out a hand to gently pet the animal, though just before he reaches the scales the snake slithers away, too fast for him to see exactly where it goes. He considers briefly going after it, looking for it. He ponders for a second whether the creature is hurt in some way, which would perhaps explain its erratic behaviour and reluctance to let Aziraphale touch him. Even so, the angel shakes his head and returns to his gardening, almost but not quite forgetting all about the occurrence.

It's only later on - much later, after he's given the sword to Adam and lives virtually every moment of his life quaking, fearing the wrath of God that only seems to grow each and every day - that he finally sees the snake again. This time, when he catches sight of it, it seems larger. He only sees it out of the corner of his eye and thinks nothing of it, too focused on watching Adam and Eve slipping off into the distance to care about anything else.

However, as he continues to look on, something in the air shifts. After a silence, he begins to feel as though he's not alone anymore. He senses another presence, somebody else with him, and after casting a quick look over his shoulder, he finds the same snake there, though now shifting into something else entirely.

He can only watch on as the snake's form grows, much larger than it had been in their initial meeting, and begins to take the form of a man. The man, as he comes to see, has bright red hair, sharp features, and the most piercing yellow-green eyes Aziraphale has ever seen. Shortly, he comes to the realisation that the man isn't a man at all, but rather something much more malevolent. He looks at Eve and connects the dots.

Reluctant to initiate conversation but all but bursting to speak, he abruptly states, "You tempted her."

Even if he hadn't been looking at the being, he could have sensed the intense stare as it turned on him. The creature looked somewhere between bemused and confused, as though he wasn't sure if Aziraphale's statement was accusatory or congratulatory. Once he gauged the angel's displeasure in his unmoving, straight mouth, he seemed to decide on a solemn answer.

"Yes," he said plainly and then, after casting his gaze up and down Aziraphale once, added in a jestful tone, "And you're the one that gave them the sword."

Aziraphale splutters, just a little. Having not been expecting such a retort, he's at a loss. How can he combat that? It was true enough. He _had_ , technically speaking, been the one to give the sword away. Not that this creature needed to know that, though. In fact, how did he knows that? Lurking, no doubt.

"What are you?" Was his only valid line of questioning, narrowing his eyes at the being, trying his best to predict the impending response. He knew, on a very basic, instinctual level, that the answer was not going to be one he liked.

There's a pause, a heartbeat, before the reply comes. "I'm a demon - Crawley."

Aziraphale is almost certain that this is the point in which his soul leaves his body. Any ounce of confidence or frustration he had managed to accumulate dissipates, leaving him feeling cold and empty. For the first time since their first interaction, he drops his gaze and looks anywhere but at the demon he now knows he's standing next too, as though they're friendly. What a ridiculous notion.

"I think it best we don't interact," he said, sounding rather sheepish now, much to his embarrassment. Oh, well he'd rather be embarrassed than smote. He cast his soft gaze up at the demon, pretending to back down, make himself seem an unworthy prey so the demon might just leave him be. "Don't you agree?"

To his dismay, this tactic only seemed to entice the creature further. The flame-haired demon takes a step closer, coming to stand before him, blocking his view of the humans. Aziraphale decides it best to wait, to see if the demon is bluffing. Even despite this, he can't pretend he's completely calm when a hand comes up to his face and a finger brushes the skin of his cheek, seeming to leave a trail of hellfire as it does so.

"Aziraphale, is it?" the angel doesn't think of asking how the demon knows his name - doesn't think he wants to know - so he merely nods. The creature bows his head, drops his voice as he does so, and speaks again, only speaking a few words before trailing off, "Can I..."

At that very moment, it seems the pair of them are on the same level. Having both lost their confidence, they're left standing awkwardly, words unspoken, stood across from each other. Aziraphale almost feels bad, until he remembers who - or, rather, what - he's speaking to, and then his mouth that had fallen open without his permission shuts, his lips pursing and forming a straight line once more.

He shouldn't feel sympathy for this creature - this _monster_ \- that seems to be pretending to be torn between something and something else. He doesn't care how much the demon looks distraught, like he wants to ask something or tell Aziraphale something, because it'd most likely be a lie anyway, or otherwise something for his own personal gain. Aziraphale, an angel of the Lord Herself, doesn't have time for a creature like 'Crawley', and he most certainly does not feel a pang of sorrow when the demon vanishes into thin air.

**

He's a little... inebriated. They both are, actually, which is probably exactly why it happens in the first place. They've come so far since Eden, since the times they were so very standoffish. Nowadays, in times like these, they actively spend time together, and Aziraphale even feels comfortable enough to become drunk around him. In a strange way, he trusts the demon, even if he wouldn't call them friends.

It's during the French Revolution. Crowley's just saved Aziraphale's neck - literally, he popped in just before he was due to be beheaded - so they're celebrating by going out for crepes. Well, strictly speaking, Aziraphale had been eating crepes, while Crawley - no, _Crowley_ it was now - seemed to watch him. Once he'd finished, however, they slipped away and bought some wine, then found themselves a quaint little spot somewhere on the grass by a clear river to drink.

It's pleasant. To begin with, whilst they're still sober, it's quiet, but not awkward. Part of him wants to engage in wild conversation, but fears it might be too awkward. After all, though they've met quite a few times, it's hardly like they _know_ each other. It's more of a mutual 'I can't speak to anybody else, so let's meet' sort of a situation. This is something his brain thankfully forgets when he drinks, it seems.

Soon enough, they're chatting (more like rambling, with the little sense anything they say makes) and Aziraphale is suddenly on his feet. He looks pointedly down at Crowley, a sort of display of dominance and order of 'watch and listen to me', then opens his mouth to speak.

"This," he begins, swaying only slightly as he gets into position, "is how you do the Gavotte."

He begins bouncing about, hardly doing it properly, but is promptly interrupted by a slurring Crowley who brings himself to stand on his feet with great difficulty. The demon makes his way over to Aziraphale slowly, careful not to trip and end up rolling into the river, then stops some distance before him.

"You need a partner to do the Gavotte, angel," he sighs, though not seeming sincerely irked, "even I know that."

"Well, strictly speaking you need more than two people," Aziraphale quips, feeling himself turning red at the thought of dancing one of his favourite dances in human history with a demon that had just corrected him.

"Ideally, i.e. not always." Crowley decides it's okay to correct him again, which makes Aziraphale's mouth run dry. The demon gets himself into place across from the angel, looking at him over his glasses, "Are you ready?"

Aziraphale's started before he's really thought through the logistics of it all. Hell-bent on proving to Crowley he really is one of the best dancers to date, he's forgotten how the dance ends. It's only three quarters of the way through their drunken dance that, when the demon stumbles a little and buys him some time to think, he realises and begins to panic.

He doesn't know _why_ the epiphany terrifies him quite so much. Perhaps it's because of who Crowley is - no, not who, but what - and he doesn't want God to misconstrue any of their interactions, if She hadn't done already. Or, just maybe, it's because deep down he's scared that the finale might make him _feel_ something, something he doesn't want to feel, or something he's felt all along but been too afraid to admit.

Once his mind has finished whirring, the tangent almost officially over, Crowley comes near to his face. They've never been so close, not ever, and the angel is almost certain he could count every freckle and blemish that covers the demon's face. His chest flutters as he tries to distract himself, thinking instead of how the marks got there. He stops breathing when Crowley's eyes drop to his lips.

"You know, it's only proper that this dance ends with..." the demon changes his method, instead bluntly asking, "Can I kiss you?"

It's Aziraphale's turn to look at Crowley's lips, thinking sinful things as he does so, actually considering saying yes before he stops himself. What is he doing? Why did he ever agree to dance such a provocative dance with Crowley? This, most probably, is merely another plot of temptation. Perhaps this has been his plan all along, the master plan: to make an angel fall. From heaven, he of course means. Nothing else, though it's hardly like it matters when he takes a sudden step backwards.

"No, I don't think that's a good idea," he can't bring himself to look Crowley in the eye as he says it, suspecting the hurt he'd find there if he did, knowing he couldn't handle such a sight, "I... no."

He punctuates his rejection with a firm shake of his head, stumbling back to the grass where they had been sat, trying, hoping, praying desperately that they could just return to normal, or whatever it was they had been. It takes him a good moment or two to even look up at the demon, who he finds still stood, looking shell-shocked, unbelievably embarrassed.

In his time since his creation, he'd never truly understood what it meant to want the ground to open up and swallow you to remove yourself from an awkward situation. Then again, now he does, some logical part of him understands that what happened is for the best, because if he had allowed Crowley to kiss him, they might have a hundred thousand other issues now.

It's only when Crowley begins moving again that he feels some sort of relief, like he hasn't broken the man for good. The demon swings back around to look at him, utters something terribly quiet, then vanishes. He suspects he'll see him again, but it won't be for some time. That's probably a good thing, he realises, because it means they have time apart to sort through whatever they need to sort through, then they can come back together, stronger than ever.

He hopes this is true.

**

"You're a fool."

Aziraphale forms the words far too easy. He's begun to suspect all of this time spent with Crowley has rubbed off on him, and he's becoming a worse and worse person by the day. Even so, the insult just seems _right_ , because Crowley - at least at the moment - is a fool. A complete and utter fool. And, moreover, he's a fool that's interrupted Aziraphale's book sales on one of the busiest days 1912 has to offer him.

"Oh, please," Crowley spits back at him, striding away from him in frustration, crossing the small area of the backroom of Aziraphale's bookshop with great ease. Apparently annoyed at the length of his own legs, he groans and turns around reluctantly, beginning his walk back towards the angel.

"You're going to get yourself killed, Crowley," Aziraphale's words seem solemn, almost sentimental, though his tone alters this and makes it seem offended, like the demon does it on purpose. Perhaps he does. "You can't keep popping in and saving the day, not even for me. One of these days you'll get caught off guard and then what? I won't bury you, Crowley. I refuse."

"Demons don't get buried," is the only thing Crowley seems important to address in the entirety of Aziraphale's developed statement. He continues pacing up and down the backroom, taking up Aziraphale's time like there aren't any customers next door waiting to be served.

"It's a figure of speech," Aziraphale clarifies, positively irked, then begins to move past Crowley, leaving through the small door just past the pacing demon. He stops only momentarily to give his closing statement, wanting Crowley to know how he feels about the foolish - yes, frankly, foolish - way he insists on saving him. "I don't need you to be my bodyguard, Crowley."

This, he can see in the way the demon's eyes seem to turn red, sets Crowley off more than anything he's said in their entire aeon-long discussion. He hasn't got any time to react to the shift in Crowley's emotions before he's pinned up against the nearest wall, picked up just off of the ground by the light fabric of his jacket, and Crowley's face is inches away from his own. He can feel the hot breath hitting his face, though there's an undeniable coldness that bites at his skin and soul.

"I'm not your bodyguard," Crowley tells him, lip quirking in a way that clearly displays his displeasure, "I'm your worst nightmare."

Aziraphale begins to chuckle. Even though it's hard, what with his chest almost being collapsed inwards with the demonic strength being applied to it, he forces out a weak laugh and his mouth quirks upwards to form a wide smile. He shakes his head at Crowley, who can only look on in wonder at his laughing companion. Whatever was so funny?

"You sound ridiculous," Aziraphale felt comfortable saying this, having known the demon long enough to know he was hardly in any immediate danger. In fact, Crowley was one of the softest beings he'd come to know, so easily excited and hurt. The venom was audibly draining from his voice, though he felt a fire still burned red hot in his chest. "You aren't going to hurt me, Crowley."

The demon's eyes flashed once more, as a last 'hurrah!' before, as it seemed to Aziraphale, all of the light died from them, and all that remained were the dimmed glasses and a straight-line mouth. He watched the angel for a while, not letting him go even when he had nothing more to say. Aziraphale could hardly argue, he could only wait for his release, rather like a storybook princess in her tower. Those stories never did make much sense to him.

"I-" Crowley fished about his brain for a clever retort, something to stump Aziraphale as the angel had done to him, but seemed to find nothing. Coming back empty-handed, the demon could only look on at him, then Aziraphale saw his lips gently part, almost so slowly he didn't notice, then words fell out in the softest, most subdued manner Aziraphale had ever heard.

"Can I kiss you?"

He'd heard this before. He knew he had and, as much as he liked to forget about the feeling of heartbreak he'd had upon rejecting the demon, he couldn't manage this, at least not for very long. As he had the first time, his lips fell open without his consent, and the thoughts in his mind all told him to say yes. They screamed at him, told him this was what he had been waiting for - why else had he provoked the demon so?

Against every inch of his being, however, he shook his head. The motion was only gentle, barely detectable to those not actively looking for it, but Crowley understood. As soon as Aziraphale did this, he was released, and the demon stood back, providing him with a clear way out of the backroom.

The angel took the hint, crossing the room and readying himself to leave, trying to destroy every thought of the two kisses he had denied Crowley. However, just as he was about to exit the room, he absently cast his eyes back over to the place where Crowley had been stood mere seconds earlier, and found a stack of books in his wake, the demon nowhere to be found.

**

He doesn't see Crowley for some time after that. He's hardly surprised - he even went as far as to predict it, so how could he be? There's a part of him that feels hollow for some time, though. He attempts to bury himself in his work, in building the reputation of the bookshop, of serving heaven to the best of his ability. From time to time, though, his mind will drift back to the demon, and he'll wonder how he's handling thing - everything.

The thought that comes back to him most often is how terrible he'd feel if he heard that something bad had become of the demon. Well, more bad than him being a demon, of course. Not only for their final interaction, but for the years of mindless bickering and fights beforehand. They'd hardly been civil since the Victorian era, let alone the 1900s. He'd always assumed they'd be fine, one day they'd make up and everything would be dandy, but as the days passed he couldn't help when his mind wandered into darker places.

This was likely the primary 'push' motivation in him beginning his search for Crowley. The demon, who had so suddenly become his friend, and somebody he missed greatly. Oftentimes he wondered if there was more to it, though he dared not label it. He wanted a reason why he felt as though he weren't whole without Crowley. Before he knew him, he'd been fine. He tended to the garden and, though he became bored sometimes, his mind wandered onto a variety of things. Now, though, each and every of his absent thoughts led him back to one place, and one place only: Crowley.

News had spread quickly of a robbery that was being planned by an underground organisation. He knew immediately who was behind it when he heard the location they were robbing, and set it as his one and only goal to find Crowley before he did something stupid and, as Aziraphale had claimed he would four decades ago, go and get himself killed. There was a sense of poetic irony, he supposed, in that he was now the one saving Crowley, and not the other way around.

He found him as he clambered into his car. Aziraphale apparated from nowhere, not wanting to cause any talk about the nature of their relationship if people saw Crowley getting into a car with an unidentified male-presenting person. He thought for a moment he scared Crowley, as the demon jumped a little upon seeing him, rather like seeing a ghost.

"Aziraphale," there as a hint of familiarity in the demon's tone, though it was mixed with something greatly icy. It was as though Crowley had forgotten how to speak to him, and yet Aziraphale couldn't bring himself to blame him. They had been apart for a very, very long time.

"Crowley," his own tone was immediately desperate, as though begging, "call off the robbery. Please. I know it's you, and I know what you want, but I can't-"

He cut himself off, sensing he was about to go off on a tangent. The abrupt end to his speech seemed to cause upset inside of Crowley, though the demon said nothing about it, only looked on at him as though lost in his own thought. Aziraphale dared not drop his gaze, fearing that in doing so he would enable Crowley to drop the topic at hand, and that was something he was not willing to accept.

"You know I can't do that, angel," Crowley sounded sincere, voice soft and almost melancholy as he delivered the fatal news to Aziraphale, whose ears almost went optionally deaf. "You know what I want - what I need. I can't give up on that."

"I was afraid you'd say that," Aziraphale sighs, then reaches into the largest pocket of his jacket and removes the flask of holy water, the lid of which he'd double, triple, quadruple checked was sealed properly and blessed to stay shut unless it was essential that it open. He's reluctant in handing over the water, still afraid some might spill, though he does it anyway.

Thankfully, Crowley is sensible with it. He knows the power such a thing holds, what it can do to a being like him. Aziraphale couldn't handle to see such an event, doesn't ever want to know what it really looks like for a demon to be desimated by blessed so-called holy water. Even just the thought of it sickens him, and watching Crowley handle so much of it makes him feel as though the wind has been knocked right out of him, as though punched repeatedly by God Herself.

"Is this it?" Crowley asks, admiring the bottle for a moment, then looking up at the angel when no response comes, "Is this the real thing?"

"The holiest," Aziraphale tries to offer Crowley a smile, though it comes off forced and insincere. "Please, Crowley, be careful. Don't do anything foolish with it."

As he looks over at the demon, it feels as though he can see through his tinted glasses. It's like they're looking into each other's eyes, like they're looking into their souls, bearing themselves entirely. Even so, Aziraphale can't read Crowley's true intention. He feels a pang of something - not guilt, something closer to want, something that terrifies and excites him - and there's a question he feels like he's waiting for Crowley to ask.

"Oh, Aziraphale," Crowley sounds so genuinely relieved, so sweet and almost back to normal when he speaks, Aziraphale almost forgets there's been tension between them for three hundred years over this very thing. "I could just kiss you right now."

There it is. Not in question form, admittedly, but he knows this is what he's waiting for when his heart sings it to him. His breath catches in his throat, half-way out of his system, and he's left looking over at Crowley. Somehow, though, he's still torn. He can't admit outright to feeling anything past friendship for the being before him, but he knows this is more than just that. Even so, even though he _knows_ he wants to kiss Crowley, to tell him how much he's missed him, to drive off into the night together, never to be seen around these parts again, he just can't. Not with the chance that Crowley might not be here tomorrow.

"You go too fast for me, Crowley."

That's all he can manage, all he can handle saying to the demon, before he's up and out and leaving. He's glad he chose such a short response because, had he stayed for a millisecond longer, he'd have either combusted or broken down crying, both of which being sides of him he can't afford to show Crowley right now.

He makes his way back to the shop on foot which, though he knows he could just teleport and be there in seconds, helps him calm the shipwreck that his mind has become. He spends the entire walk thinking about Crowley, about their time in Eden and every meeting since. He thinks of all the times Crowley suggested that they should, prompted him to, asked him outright to kiss, and how he had rejected him every time. He thinks of how he might never see the demon again, never hear his voice, never sit beside him in his car, never fight with him again

Then, as soon as he steps through the door of his shop, breaching the premises, he tries to never think of Crowley again.

**

He almost succeeds in this, except for the fact that he completely and utterly fails. He spends the next few years once more attempting to busy himself, trying to put in extra work time for heaven, praying more often, adding more and more books to his collection in the shop. No matter what he does, however, the thoughts of Crowley creep back up on him, and one day it all becomes too much.

On this day, however, he has the greatest shock of his lifetime. He's sat, wallowing, in the backroom of his bookshop, reminiscing about the final fight they ever had there. Then, forcing him to jump up out of his seat and out of his own head, the phone suddenly begins ringing. It's piercing, he's not even sure if it's ever been like this. He thinks perhaps the new 80s technology is just that much better than all tech before it.

He springs from his seat, and any onlooker might have incorrectly concluded that this meant he was feeling spritely. This was wildly misconstrued: his heart felt heavy, his brain felt full of all of the wrong things, and his body felt so exhausted you'd think he actually required sleep.

Despite this, he made his way over to the telephone and plucked it off of the wall, bringing it to his ear and speaking:  
"I'm terribly sorry, we're closed today. Feel free to try again tomorrow."

The truth was, the shop shouldn't have been closed. It shouldn't have been closed at all, because it was the middle of the week, and approximately six well-known authors had just released books, and he had stacks upon stacks of copies. He even had some limited-edition signed ones, which would have sold for triple the price of normal ones, but even still he had his doors locked and bolted, and a sign that read 'closed'.

Why was this, you ask? Aziraphale's mind had gotten to him, was the long and short of it. He had been dwelling on the past, as they say, thinking all of the wrong things he'd done, and how wrongly he'd treated certain people - well, beings. He most often thought of Crowley - oh, who was he kidding? He'd only thought of Crowley - and how he'd picked so many little fights with him, and for what? For the sake of it?

On the other end of the line, he didn't hear them drop the phone. He anticipated a swift end to the call, perhaps some breathing or a sigh or some, ahem, inappropriate language beforehand, but they seemed undeterred. His widower's mindset drove him mad, thinking _what if_? What if this was him? What if this was the call he had waited twenty years for, and it was finally here? He hung on, listening for any clues - racing traffic, perhaps, or screaming pedestrians - to signal that somehow, somewhere, Crowley was using this to get in touch with him.

It was only when the man spoke up that he knew.

"Oh, right, sorry to bother you, then. Have a nice day," the man - who was decidedly not Crowley - said pleasantly, and then promptly ended the call.

Aziraphale all but slammed the telephone back down onto the receiver - an action he would be reprimanded for in heaven, as an open display of violent tendencies - and stalked back over to his chair, falling into it and slumping there. He sighed loudly, then once more for good luck. He prepared himself to go back to writing whatever nonsense he had been before, pretending like everything was fine, when another voice caught his attention.

"My, Aziraphale," he knew the intonation and manner of speech there was important, and hoped he in his mind had placed the comma in the right place. His ears perked up but he did not turn around, afraid he would find merely a shadow signalling his insanity if he did so, "Closing up shop early? Not like you, is it?"

"Crowley?" He let himself breathe, voice barely above a whisper. He carefully let himself begin to turn his head - slowly, mentally preparing himself to find nothing and be utterly devastated about it - and eventually set his eyes on Crowley's form.

Frankly, he looked... strange. Aziraphale couldn't decide in the moment if this was good or a bad thing, though he knew almost immediately he didn't like the demon's new moustache one bit. Even so, he began beaming at Crowley, standing on his feet to greet him. He was unsure how to do so, whether a hug was too friendly or a handshake was too formal. Instead, he kept smiling at him, and nodded once to acknowledge his presence and that yes, his newfound joy was in fact a direct result of seeing Crowley alive and well after so long.

"Let's go for a walk," Crowley suggested, shrugging his shoulders, raising and dropping his eyebrows with them, "Shall we?"

The two of them set off shortly after Crowley's arrival, and didn't stop until it was dark. In this darkness, shrouded in the black of night, things felt... better. Safer, and somehow less scary. He felt he could look over at Crowley without the demon catching him doing so, and so he took the opportunity gladly.

Crowley had both changed substantially and not changed at all since their last meeting in Soho. In twenty years, he of course hadn't aged a day, and yet his hair - on his head and face - had changed so very much. In the sixties, Crowley had favoured a clean-shaven look, with his hair comparable to that of the Beatles. Now, though, his hair was longer, or at least it seemed to be as it had been straightened. Even hours later, after catching up and stealing looks over at Crowley's face, Aziraphale could plainly state that he did not like Crowley's moustache.

The longer he looked at it, the more amused he became. This tickling jest in his chest continued to grow until he couldn't contain it anymore, and he let some of the delightful pressure out in the form of a chuckle. Crowley, never one to miss anything, cast his eyes over to Aziraphale, and himself began smiling.

"What?" Crowley asked him, watching as his laughter did not grow in magnitude but most certainly continued, "What is it?"

Aziraphale could only shake his head, attempting to dismiss the matter, figuring the demon would not take kindly to the insult of 'your moustache looks ridiculous' after twenty years give or take of them not speaking whatsoever. He was endlessly grateful when a spot of rain suddenly landed atop his beige overcoat, appearing to stain it. He looked up from the floor and met Crowley's eye.

"It's raining," he offered intelligently.

"So it is," Crowley responded and then, from thin air, pulled a black umbrella, opening it up and gesturing for Aziraphale to come and join him beneath it. "Good thing I've brought shelter, eh?"

Aziraphale offered him a small smile, the giggles dying from his throat as he shifted to stand beneath the minute cover the umbrella offered the two of them, their vessels being two fully grown men. It felt silly, something perhaps from a cheesy romantic film that he secretly adored watching. At the thought, he subconsciously came closer to Crowley's chest, and the demon welcomed him with an arm around his waist.

Part of him assumed they would resume walking immediately, perhaps find somewhere dark to allow them to teleport out of the stormy weather and into the safety of his bookshop. Perhaps they would open up one of his aged bottles of wine and celebrate the revenant that was Crowley, but to his surprise he found they didn't move an inch. He turned to look up at Crowley, who he found already looking at him.

"Crowley, I-" He began to try an initiate some sort of a conversation that might - just maybe - help detract from the helpless feeling building in the pit of his stomach, filling him up from the inside until it burst out. He couldn't tell precisely what might happen if it exploded, but he wasn't feeling ready to find out.

"Can I kiss you?"

There was the question, again. The proposition he never thought he'd hear again, the one thing he wanted to hear again and again for the rest of eternity. He couldn't imagine in a world with out Crowley in it; now a world without him wanting to kiss Crowley seemed absolutely absurd. He did, however, accidentally cast his eyes down from Crowley's just slightly in his thinking, which once more set him off chuckling.

"Not with that moustache."

After saying this, he half expected Crowley to vanish again, as he had done the past few times. It was hardly unlikely that the demon would take offence to his frankly insulting rejection, and so not seeing Crowley for the next twenty years at least was a real possibility, which frightened Aziraphale. He wished he could have just kept himself quiet, said a simple 'yes' or 'no' as he should have, given Crowley the nicest way out.

It's only when Crowley cracks a smile himself that he knows it's okay. Everything, it seems, is okay between them, because Crowley's nodding along, chuckling alongside him, and he's still _here_. Oh, God, he's still here, he hasn't gone and topped himself with the holy water Aziraphale so recklessly gave him, as he had anticipated he would. He's not gone off and vanished into a puff of smoke, either, but rather opted to stay right there, right _here_ , right beside him.

The pair of them exchange a few more words, none especially out of the ordinary, and set off on their way back to the shop again. And, praise the Lord, Crowley stays long past midnight, so far into the morning in fact that Aziraphale thinks he might even stay the night. However, he does eventually pick up and leave, giving Aziraphale a sincere smile before he vanishes and, for once in their entire time of knowing each other, Aziraphale doesn't think he'll have to wait very long before they see each other again.

**

Since the last hiatus, they haven't gone more than a week without seeing each other. Of course, they still have to be careful, but for the last thirty or so years they've met regularly, usually in the park, sitting side-by-side on the conspicuous bench, chatting away about everything and nothing at all. They become friends, and Aziraphale even begins to let himself accept that perhaps they're something a little more than that. Since the incident during the Blitz, he's suspected it, but he's only let himself truly feel it very recently.

So, to cut a very long story short, it's safest to just acknowledge it and skip to present. Today, they stand in Crowley's flat, Aziraphale never having been here before, mesmerised by the pristine cavern it seems to be. It's dark, as he had anticipated, and it's so very clean. He thinks he's in heaven, though he's with a demon, which he notes is strange. He delves a little deeper into his search, hearing no objection from Crowley, and turns a full 180 degrees when he does.

"Crowley," he sounds breathless, having caught sight of something he'd never have anticipated in his wildest dreams. Crowley looks at him through his dark lenses, awaiting his grand proclamation, "You keep plants?"

The question is, of course, rhetorical, and he all but sprints into the plant room before Crowley even has a chance to sigh and murmur a feigned-dismal, "Yes."

Aziraphale feels so inexplicably overjoyed as he bounds into the room, bowing to the level of the first plant he sees. Mind, the plants are so tall and spritely that he's hardly going to hurt his back, though his neck might begin to hurt if he tries to look up at them for too long. He gently runs a finger along one of the brightly coloured leaves and smiles to himself.

"Aren't you a pretty little thing?"

His words are, as they would be any other time, made up on the spot. However, something about his deliverance or lexical choice or _something_ makes Crowley take in a sharp breath, and Aziraphale can feel the sudden shift in the room. He swaps his focus from the plant to the demon, who at current moment is covering his mouth whilst pretending he's not covering his mouth, which is an odd sight to see indeed.

"Crowley?" He calls to him tentatively, fearing he's finally gone completely and utterly mad, "Are you feeling alright? Do you need me to get you anything? Painkillers, maybe?"

"No, I-" Crowley's voice show how taken aback he is, but then he stops and forces himself to speak lower, in a gruffer way. "You're not meant to do that. To compliment them, I mean. Doesn't help them grow."

Aziraphale can't believe his ears. He lets his mouth hang open to display his shock, then takes steps closer to Crowley, stopping a normal, conversational distance away from him. "You have to nurture them, Crowley. It's the only way to do it."

"Not what I've found," Crowley states matter-of-factly, as though he knows all there is to know in the world.

"Well, let's put it into perspective, then, shall we?" Aziraphale is determined, confident in his manner of speech and how he holds himself, "What if you were told bad things about yourself, all of the time? How do you think you'd react to it? Would it help your self-confidence, or squash it?"

"Don't think I'd care, to be honest," Crowley shrugs, "sort of part of the job description: no self-esteem."

Aziraphale thinks this is a vague attempt at a joke, but he doesn't find it funny at all. He instead takes a step closer to Crowley, looking him in the eye all the while, and reaches up to remove the demon's dark glasses. There's minimal resistance, and soon enough Aziraphale's got them safely put on the side somewhere, and now he's looking up into the beautiful chartreuse eyes he's come to know so well.

"You are lovely, Crowley," the demon growls at this compliment and visibly squirms, though never once makes to leave. "A beautiful creature, hand-crafted by God. You aren't a mistake."

He tries to keep a somewhat light tone as he speaks, not wanting to sour things nor make things awkward between them (heaven knows they've spent long enough like that), but he wants Crowley to know how dreadfully serious he is. He's always suspected but never been outright told by the demon how redundant he feels; Aziraphale wants to rectify this. He wants Crowley to know how important and necessary he is - to him and the rest of the world. Hell, they've even stopped the apocalypse together, how much more useful could he get?

"You're letting me stay at your flat," he continues on, "because my bookshop burned down. You always put others first. You're the first to offer a helping hand. You are, as you hate to hear, a good person. Or, rather, as good of a person as a demon can be."

"Right," Crowley pretends to agree, obviously wanting him to change the topic. Aziraphale refuses.

"Crowley," his voice sounds more like a warning than he had anticipated and intended, but it makes the demon look at him regardless, "I'm going to ask you to do something for me, and I want it to be the last favour you ever do me."

Crowley quirks an eyebrow, looking intrigued. He says nothing.

"I want you to kiss me."

The immense wave of relief hits the both of them at the exact same time. He sees the stress raise and evaporate from Crowley's body as he feels it in his own. The mutual acceptance of Aziraphale's clearly-spoken words is daunting in a sense because it means they have to deal with it now, but it feels good. Both of them seem to realise that the ball isn't solely in either of their courts now; it's the two of them together, as it always should have been.

"I..." Crowley's sentence trails off before it's even begun. Aziraphale half expects him to pick up another, to begin chatting his head off about why they shouldn't, evaluate the situation, or perhaps to reject him as he had done prior, when Crowley had been the one to finally work up the courage and just _ask_ already.

Aziraphale's cue comes in when Crowley moves in. Slowly, precisely, he steps forward, eyes not leaving Aziraphale's as he closes the distance between their bodies. He still seems frightened, even though Aziraphale wouldn't even dream of moving away right now. It's as though he's expecting something terrible to happen before their lips touch, or afterwards he'll uncover that Aziraphale wasn't, in fact, Aziraphale.

Whilst this deliberation happens inside of Crowley's head, Aziraphale waits. Patiently, knowing deep down that eventually Crowley will come to him, he takes the time instead to study Crowley's face. The man, frankly, looks beautiful, with his short-yet-long hair styled upwards, defying gravity, and his shaven face. Rather amusingly, Aziraphale privately quips that he's glad the moustache is gone, else he wouldn't have asked to kiss in the first place.

By the time Crowley's lain a hand on his cheek, Aziraphale has considered and reconsidered the demon's features a hundred times over. He decides that his favourite feature is actually a tie between two: his hair and his eyes. The hair, of course, which is of a beautiful auburn-flame colour, like hell itself dancing atop his head. This would not usually be considered a good, attractive thing, but it's a good look on the demon.

The eyes, however... Crowley's eyes are a symbol of what he is, where he's been, the things he's seen and done. In his yellow eyes, Aziraphale sees heaven and hell. He sees Crowley's fall, and then his eventual lift. He sees himself, obviously reflected when he looks close enough, but also in Crowley's mind. He isn't sure if demons have souls, but if they do he's certainly stitched himself as part of Crowley's, from what his eyes tell. Aziraphale feels giddy at the notion.

Crowley breathes deeply, clearly trying to calm his nerves, before he dips his head. His touch on the side of Aziraphale's face is ghost-light, and it's almost but not quite like it's not there at all. Regardless, the angel keens into the touch, trying to encourage Crowley, who seems to be having a full mental breakdown in the matter of a few silent moments.

Eventually, Crowley does it. He bends just the littlest bit, casting his gaze between Aziraphale's eyes and lips just once more before he's upon him. The angel doesn't think he's ever felt anything holier than this: the demon applying gentle pressure against his own mouth, tempting him into a sin he's already given in to a hundred thousand times over in his mind. He could almost laugh as he thinks _finally_ , then lets himself snake his arms around the back of Crowley's head.

The demon takes the hint soon enough. The hand on Aziraphale's face drops, instead joining his other hand to link behind the angel's back, effectively locking him in position, making him easier to kiss. Crowley tastes almost ashy, but in a good way. Not as a smoker might do, but like a delicious cooked dish. He feels even better, what with his soft hand and impossibly kind hands intoxicating Aziraphale, bringing him nearer, making the deaf man sing.

Aziraphale thinks he's the first to pull back, though it seems to be a mutual decision. He isn't too fazed by the relative shortness of the kiss, as he presumes - hopefully - there will be more to come, more to enjoy, likely forever, at least if he has it his way. For now, though, he can sense there's something - something eating away at Crowley, something he wants to give him the space and time to say.

The clawing issue, apparently, can be introduced in a matter of three words, at least in Crowley's mind, as he merely draws back an inch or two and says, "That's not all."

Aziraphale narrows his eyes a little and shakes his head, "What do you mean?"

"What you said," Crowley begins to explain, "About my plants... you said that to me, too. In the very beginning."

"What, that you were a pretty little thing?" Aziraphale can't control his beaming grin, and chuckles a little when Crowley sheepishly nods, "Oh, well, I am terribly sorry to have insulted you so."

Crowley's eyes shoot open, obviously having not gauged Aziraphale's sarcasm yet. The angel doesn't know if he ever will, nor if he ever wants him to. "No! No, it was... good. Nice."

Aziraphale relaxes further into Crowley's arms, resting his head against the demon's firm chest. He fits beneath Crowley's chin, right into his shoulder, like the spot was made exactly for him. With a quizzical look upwards, aiming for God, he questions whether that was the plan all along. How truly ineffable.

"Well, in that case, I suppose I'll compliment you more often," he says, humming the words into Crowley's body, feeling the vibration as it's instilled into every fibre of the demon's being. He hopes one day he can make him believe every word he says about him, because they're all true.

"Mhm," Crowley hums back, bringing his hands to cradle Aziraphale's head, radiating the maternal instinct that the angel can only imagine stems from his time as Warlock's nanny. "Just don't get too cocky."

 _Never_ , Aziraphale thinks, but never says aloud. After all, lying is a sin, and he'd say he's been rather cocky today. Oh, well, at least it had gotten him somewhere, and that somewhere was beyond worth the six thousand years of waiting.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! hope you enjoyed :)
> 
> feel free to leave a comment expressing what you thought of this piece!


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